


A gift from God

by rudbeckia



Category: Silence (2016), The Revenant (2016)
Genre: Animal Death, Denial of Feelings, Huddling For Warmth, Hunters & Hunting, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mention of Mercy Killing, Mild Gore, Period-Typical Sexism, Religious Guilt, Self-Flagellation, Self-Harm, Strangers to Lovers, Survival, exit pursued by a bear, wanking in the wilderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-29 23:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19030477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudbeckia/pseuds/rudbeckia
Summary: Captain Henry, running for his life through the forest where he has been trapping, trips and falls unconscious. When he wakes, he is still in a forest but it is very different. He meets a ragged man, close to starvation, who says Henry is proof that he has not been abandoned by God for his despair.Between them, they must survive, work out where they are, and find a way back to civilisation.





	1. May your prayers be answered

Captain Henry stands stock still in the strange forest, ears straining for the sounds of voices or of tramping feet on the brittle leaf litter under his worn and leaking boots. All he hears is the rustling and creaking of the impossibly tall, thick stems that tower over him, pushed this way and that by a wind that whispers over their heads, cracking as if the whole forest is about to come down on his head. There’s an irregular knocking and thumping as the stems collide and rub high above, and off to his left, something scatters the dry leaf litter, but it is merely some creature, small and fast, running and hiding just like him. Once he is certain he is alone apart from the wildlife, he looks around again and quietly moves onwards. It has been a full day of travel without pursuit, and he dares to hope that his pursuers have lost him when he tripped and fell unconscious and out of sight in the undergrowth.

He has many such stops to listen to his surroundings. It’s not the forest he was running through, running for his life, so he assumes he has run so far that the lofty redwoods have given way to these bamboo giants in a part of the territories he has not encountered before. He’s learned to filter out the shushing and crackling of the swaying forest and focus on listening for the telltale regular crunch of footsteps, or the welcome rush and splash of running water that captivates his attention now. There’s a stream up ahead. He resumes his slow walk, exhaustion nodding his head, until he thinks he can even smell the water.

There’s movement again and Henry freezes, the gnawing in his belly suddenly sharper. Slowly, he slides his pistol from its holster and takes aim. Risks the sound giving him away. Fires once. He’ll eat today.

Invigorated by just the thought of food, he jogs to the small carcass and hoists it up. He can clean it by the river and cook it over a careful fire, if he hears no other human. But when he stumbles at last to the riverbank, he’s not alone. Another man is lying prone on the other bank, splashily drinking his fill and muttering. Henry watches him, creeps closer to fill his canteen and wash the worst of the sweat-salt and grime from his face, never taking his eyes off the stranger. When he drops the deer and reaches for his knife, the man looks up, cries out, pushes himself to his knees and raises his hands heavenward, making a sound that is unmistakably one of joy. Henry backs away slowly, lifting the deer like a sack over his shoulder, but the man splashes across the shallow river and sits nearby.

He looks harmless. Henry finishes skinning and butchering the deer, packs the meat into a sack of its own hide, and sets off again leaving what he can’t or won’t eat for nature’s own scavengers and putting some distance between the bloodied river rocks and himself. When he looks back over his shoulder he sees the ragged man getting closer and closer, but he looks to be no threat and the deer will easily feed them both. Eventually Henry stops to make camp. It isn’t much: a clearing in the leaf litter, swept out by his boots, and a small fire in the centre on which to cook the deer meat. The stranger helps with bare feet and fetches rocks to build a hearth for the fire.  
“You seen any sign of bears?” Henry asks. His first words to the stranger.  
“Garupe,” the man replies, pointing at his chest. “Francisco Garupe.”  
Henry regards him with a frown. “Andrew Henry,” he says, pointing to himself. “What about wolves? You know what a bear or a wolf can do to a man, Garupe?”  
Garupe frowns and speaks in a language Henry does not understand.  
“Bear,” Henry repeats, “wolf,” lifting his arms, curling his hands into claws, snarling. Garupe takes three steps backwards and makes the sign of the cross over his heart.  
“Not me.” Does the man think he’s possessed? “Here.” He stretches his arms out and indicates the forest around them. Garupe comes closer. Henry tries again, dredging words from his schooling.  
“Ursa? Lupi?”  
Garupe whips around, right and left, with a look of terror on his face. “Ubi bestia!”  
At least the man has enough good sense to be afraid. “Tell me if you see a bear,” Henry says, or thinks he says, in his best schoolboy Latin.  
“I do not,” Garupe replies. “Thanks be to God.”

When the fire is set within a hearth ring of fist-sized stones prised from the ground, Henry takes the deerskin parcel and opens it up. He skewers meat onto stakes made from shards of pale brown bamboo soaked with a little water from his canteen, and sets it to roast with Garupe’s eyes following every move he makes. Henry takes a good look at him by the fading daylight. The man is tall but gaunt with the hollow cheeks and staring eyes of someone long used to hunger. His hair is wild and tangled, his skin is tanned and his clothing is ragged, coloured like black bleached out to charcoal, and filthy. A belt made of twine holds his rags closed and his bare calves have the muscle definition of someone who has travelled far on callused feet. His ankles and painfully thin wrists bear the signs of having been shackled.

Henry confirms his guess. “Padre?”  
Garupe nods once and makes the sign of the cross over him. “By the grace of God. I was in despair that I would die abandoned by my Lord. I begged God to guide me and when I looked up, you were there as the answer to my prayer. You are the sign that I have not been forsaken. My faith is renewed and I give thanks to God for it.”  
Henry, understanding few of Garupe’s words, frowns and shakes his head. Garupe smiles and his face lightens so incredibly that Henry almost smiles back.  
“I ask God to help me,” Garupe says slowly, waiting for Henry to nod that he has understood. “And you are here.”  
Henry nods again. “What is this place?”  
Garupe shrugs. “In chains.” He points to the red, raw welts around his ankles. “I pray to God set me free. I despair. I sleep. I wake here. Lost.”  
Henry frowns at that, although he nods his understanding of the words. He could tell his tale, if only his Latin was good enough. “I run. Men run behind.” He uses his hands to mime being chased. “Down,” he mimics falling and knocks his head with his knuckles. “I wake here in forest.”

Some juice from the meat sizzles in the flames. Henry takes one of the skewers and tests it. It is cooked through so he takes one chunk and chews a bite of it, then offers the rest of the skewer to Garupe. Garupe speaks rapidly, ending with a drawn out _a-a-men_ and shoves one chunk whole into his mouth. Henry is sure the priest will choke, but he doesn’t and when Henry offers him another skewer with three chunks of browned venison, he reaches for it with both hands. Henry laughs softly and Garupe catches his eye and grins.  
“It is good,” he says, muffled through a mouthful of meat. “I am thankful to God and to you.”  
Henry eats more slowly, chewing smaller bites of the dryish meat. So far, Father Garupe is the only human he has seen here. Of his pursuers, who would have killed him for trapping on their land, and of Garupe’s captors, there is no sign. There is no sign of bear or wolf or lynx either, although he thinks there must be some large predator somewhere since there are timorous prey creatures scuttling here and there. But he does not think they will be troubled by it tonight, though, and he takes the rest of the roast venison from the heat and sets it aside to cool. Garupe’s eyes follow the food. Henry slides one more chunk off its wooden skewer and holds it out. Garupe takes it, tears it in two, eats half and offers half back to Henry. Henry plucks it from Garupe’s hand with his fingers, holds Garupe’s gaze and eats it. He jerks back as Garupe’s hand comes up towards his face, then holds still when Garupe freezes, concern in his expression. Henry relaxes and nods, and Garupe murmurs a few words and traces a cross with his thumb on Henry’s forehead.  
“Well I ain’t burst into flames so I ain’t all bad,” Henry says in English. Garupe looks quizzically at him and he shrugs.

Henry removes his blanket from his pack, wraps the meat as soon as it is cool enough and packs it away. Just in case the smell attracts scavengers, he takes his knife and ammunition from the pack and stows the pack with its new contents at the foot of one of the giant bamboo stems some distance away, weighted down with rocks. Out of habit, he stretches the deer skin out too. When he returns, Garupe has shuffled closer to the fire and his thin arms are wrapped around his knees, hugging himself into a ball.  
“Sleep,” Henry says, shifting to add more fuel to the fire and check none of the dry leaf litter has encroached on the ring of bare earth around it. He looks again at Garupe’s spare body and scant clothing, then up at the sky where constellations he only half-recognises are beginning to peer through the canopy. If it is a clear night, it will be cold. He beckons Garupe closer, puts the blanket on the ground and takes his woollen greatcoat off. He points at the blanket. Garupe looks at him gratefully and lies down at the edge. Henry shakes his head. “No, here.” He points to the centre. Garupe rolls over to the middle on his side and Henry wraps what he can of one side of the blanket around Garupe’s back, legs and arm. He settles himself beside Garupe, in front of him, and pulls his coat over them both.

He thinks he won’t sleep. He’ll stay awake and vigilant in case their camp has attracted attention. But when he next opens his eyes, sunlight is streaming down and Garupe’s warmth is gone.


	2. I keep under my body and bring it into subjection

The fire and the stone ring that contained it are cold but the sunlight slanting white and green and yellow through the bamboo promises warmth later, so Henry gets up, stretches, walks a short distance away for privacy before returning to clear their camp. His pack has not been disturbed overnight, but the deerskin he had stretched out to dry for the night has had the few remaining scraps of flesh and fat picked from it, scissored off by tiny, biting jaws. He presses his lips tight, regretting the lack of salt in his pack to help cure it. Still, the hide might be of use so he will carry it tied to his pack and open to the air.

Henry smiles and calls, “Good morning,” as Garupe emerges from the other side of their camp. He walks stiffly and has leaf litter stuck to his bare knees. “Food?” Henry says, reaching into his pack for the cooked meat. Garupe nods and accepts a chunk of venison, muttering his thanks to God before devouring it and waiting to be offered another. Henry scatters the remains of their fireplace and covers up the small clearing again with leaf litter. “Always leave a place how you found it,” he explains in words Garupe can’t understand. But the priest catches on and helps. Once satisfied that their camp will be invisible to all but the most keen eyed tracker, Henry checks the position of the Sun, turns his right shoulder to it, lifts his pack and walks. When he turns to see if Garupe is following, he stops, drops his pack, takes off his greatcoat, and hands the warm woollen coat out to the shivering priest. Garupe looks from Henry’s face to the coat and back again.  
“You’re cold,” Henry says. “Uh, frigus?”  
Garupe nods and reaches for the coat. He puts it on, sighing into the body-warmth that remains in the fibres. Henry nods and hefts his pack. His arms feel the chill, but his back is covered and he will soon heat up once they are moving properly. Garupe hugs the coat around himself and fastens the few remaining buttons. His shoulders strain the seams but from there the blue-grey wool hangs as if from a frame.  
“Thank you,” Garupe says, blinking. “You are kind.”  
Henry replies in gruff English. “If that’s what some folks call doing what’s right under the circumstances.”  
Garupe smiles and shrugs. Henry smiles back before he turns and walks away through the grass.

Henry can hear Garupe close behind, instinctively walking in step. When the priest’s gait stumbles for the third time, Henry stops and drops his pack. “We rest here.”  
Garupe eases down onto his knees and closes his eyes. Henry moves a few steps away while Garupe prays, leans against a thick bamboo stem and pulls out their dwindling supply of food. There’s no point saving it, he thinks. Eat now and gain strength to push onwards. Maybe if he encounters prey larger than the juvenile deer he shot yesterday he can dry strips of flesh over a smoky fire and then they will have rations that will last for days. He counts out a few chunks and estimates that what remains will last them until the next morning. He holds the meat out to Garupe, who sits beside him and at right angles, flinching once as he leans back on the same stem, shoulders touching. Henry waits while the priest mumbles through his _”a-a-men”_ before eating.

“We go where?” Garupe says, sucking the last morsel from his fingers and tilting his head at Henry.  
“North and east,” Henry replies, looking at the Sun and pointing. “Forest not...” He sighs and scratches his head. “Look, this forest can’t last forever. Reckon I got chased so far south and west that I got to a place I ain’t never been before. We keep going north and east until I get someplace I know. Or find a river and follow it. If there’s water, there’s people and if there’s people then we ain’t lost.”  
Garupe nods sagely. Henry sighs again. “You got no idea what I’m saying.” He tries his poor memory of Latin again. “Forest not all. Forest end. Water. People... house.” He waves his hand like a snake.  
“River,” Garupe says. Henry nods. Garupe speaks rapidly in a language that Henry thinks sounds a little familiar, a little like Spanish just here and there. But he can speak Spanish and this is not the same. Henry waits for him to say words he can comprehend. Garupe draws a wide S-shape on the ground. “River.” He makes eye contact with Henry, who nods and repeats. Garupe puts a stone beside it. “Rome.” He finger-walks his hand along the side of the S to the stone. Henry smiles and nods. With another sigh, he says, “You don’t talk English and I don’t talk whatever that is you speak. Hablas español?”

Garupe’s face crinkles and he covers his mouth to laugh, a sound that confounds Henry then cheers his heart and makes him smile in sympathy, then laugh in understanding. Garupe takes his hand and squeezes it. “Yes, my friend,” he says. “I can speak Spanish. I am Portuguese and travelled in Spain before finding my vocation.”

This time when he wants to press on, Henry can ask Garupe if he is well enough to keep going. Garupe gets to his feet and offers Henry a hand to pull himself up. When they set off, they fall into silent contemplation of their situation once more. Stories, Henry thinks, are for the campfire not the march. They stop twice more to rest and eat. When the Sun is lower, behind and to their left Henry pauses and listens, points and walks faster. The closer he gets, the more unmistakeable is the welcome sound of running water.

“We should camp here,” Henry says. Garupe agrees with a quiet _if God wills it so it will be_ and helps clear the ground Henry chooses and bring leaf-litter kindling and dry, broken bamboo stalks and fallen branches to break up and stack inside their makeshift hearth. The low afternoon Sun still warms the air. Henry tastes the water and cleans out his canteen.  
“I feel like I have not been clean for months,” Garupe says. “I can not remember when I last bathed.”  
“Not stopping you,” Henry says. He feels the grit between his toes and examines the stains on his hands and arms. “No harm in it for me either.” He checks the camp over and starts removing his clothes. Garupe, a few steps away, turns his back and does the same. Once Henry has shaken out his clothes and draped them on a rock, he sees Garupe’s pale back in contrast to his tanned arms and face as he walks into the river, hissing at the cold of the river compared to the warmth of the air. Henry stares at the crisscrossing red streaks on the priest’s back and then follows him into the water, calling out to be careful of currents.

Henry wades out until the water is deep enough for him to submerge himself if he sits down and dips his head. The river is not wide and not particularly fast, and he thinks they could easily wade across if they had reason. But the terrain of the river bank they are already on looks easy. When he opens his eyes underwater, silver-backed carp dart here and there, startled by the slightest movement. He scrubs at his skin with a handful of smooth, fine gravel from the bed of the river and soaks his hair, rubbing through it again and again with his fingers until he feels the tangles ease. He pushes his hair back from his face and sits up, hair slicked back, hands on his head, arms and shoulders above the water. There are red marks on his pale skin where he has scrubbed off dirt and dried blood, but he is clean and the feeling is good. Garupe sits nearby with his back to Henry and Henry wonders if he should also turn away for the sake of the priest’s modesty. But Garupe turns and smiles.  
“It feels good.” Garupe combs through his hair with splayed fingers. Henry wants to offer to help tease out or cut off the knots but he won’t dare. Now that the grime is gone, Garupe’s face looks more noble than fearful, with dark, dark eyes set under expressive brows over a regal nose and generous lips.  
“Yes,” Henry says. “My ma used to say cleanliness was next to godliness.”  
Garupe smiles at that. “There are many things closer to godliness than cleanliness, but bathing was considered important at the seminary. Although our cells were private, we crowded together for worship. Any priest refusing to bathe weekly would feel the wrath of his brothers in Christ.”  
Henry grins. “Army ain’t like that. All crammed into barracks together like bees in a hive, and some of the boys real strangers to soap.”  
Garupe pretends to raise his hands in prayer. “Oh for some soap!”  
He grins at Henry. Henry laughs.

Henry stands up and shakes water from his arms and shoulders, expecting Garupe to turn away from the sight of his nudity, but Garupe stares. The priest points at Henry’s side.  
“What happened? If I may ask.”  
Henry looks at the puckered pink and white scar tissue on his abdomen. “Bear,” he says with a shrug. “I got off lightly. It got one of my team real bad before we killed it. Took a swipe at me, but it ripped him right open.” Henry goes quiet and looks away. “You’re a man of God,” he says. “Would I be forgiven if I eased his passage into heaven?”  
Garupe is visibly shocked by Henry’s implied act. “I will ask God for guidance,” he replies.  
“Your turn,” Henry says. “What got your back?”  
Garupe frowns. “My back?”  
“You have old scars and fresh marks. What attacked you?”  
Understanding floods Garupe’s gaunt face. “I remind myself that I am unworthy in the eyes of God. I punish myself for my sins, so that I may be forgiven.”  
Henry frowns and wades back to the riverbank. He hauls himself up onto a warm, dry rock near his clothes. Garupe follows and they perch on adjacent rocks, letting the breeze dry their skin.

Reluctantly, Henry dresses in his sweat-stiff clothes and sets to work lighting their campfire.  
Garupe gathers up his rags and walks away.


	3. Lead us not into temptation

“We follow the river tomorrow,” Henry says when Garupe reappears from the dark greens and brown-black shadows of the forest. He’s sitting cross-legged by the campfire and his pack is open beside him. Garupe sits on the other side and waits for Henry to offer him food. As always, Garupe chants a prayer over the dried out venison. Henry smiles. “You askin’ God for sharper teeth?”  
Garupe smiles back. “I give thanks for everything God provides.” His face drops into a serious frown. “Everything,” he repeats, looking intently at Henry. Henry looks away, studying the dancing orange and red flames for a minute.  
“I meant what I asked, before. Should I be forgiven? Should I have let him suffer?”  
Garupe sighs and reaches a hand out to clasp Henry’s forearm. Henry’s startled by the contact and Garupe snatches his hand back again. “It is not my place to forgive, or to judge. That is for God to decide. But taking the life of another man is a sin and you must repent to be forgiven.”  
Henry’s expression hardens. “Well I am not sorry for what I did. I am sorry my man got mauled but I would do the same again and I hope someone would pay me the same courtesy. How could it be better to listen to... to refuse to end his pain and fear, knowing he was going to die anyway?”  
Garupe reaches over again and clasps Henry’s arm. This time Henry does not flinch. “That is a matter for your own conscience. If you wish it, I can hear your confession and give absolution, but if you do not repent in your heart then...” Garupe shrugs. “God will know. This man’s life was not yours to take. He was God’s creature and only God may decide when to claim one of His creatures for His Kingdom.”  
“Bullshit,” Henry mutters. “Why would anyone worship a God that makes a man suffer like that?”  
Garupe takes his hand away and Henry misses the contact. They eat quietly for a while, listening to the pop and crackle of the fire in front of them and the eerie creaking and tapping of the bamboo behind them and above their heads.  
“When you took his life,” Garupe asks, “whose suffering were you bringing to an end?”  
Henry does not reply. They let the fire burn down to ash and embers, and Henry arranges their blanket as before with Garupe wrapped up and just enough space for Henry to lie in front of him with his coat for a cover. They don’t talk any more and soon Henry is being lulled by the soft, regular breathing of the man at his back. As he drifts into sleep he’s only vaguely aware of the weight of Garupe’s arm around his waist.

When he wakes up, he’s alone. Henry lies still for a few minutes, listening to the ever present forest sounds and the soft splashing and rushing of the river over the stones at its bank. The river will be their companion and guide from now on, he thinks, and wonders if Garupe is praying for its banks to allow easy travelling and lead them to a village or a town soon. He gets up as soon as he hears Garupe’s footsteps and they sit by their cold hearth eating the last tough chunks of the venison.  
“Need to find some more food today,” Henry observes.  
Garupe nods and murmurs the rapid Latin of an extra prayer. “God will provide.”  
“God better be a good trapper,” Henry replies, getting up to scatter the remains of their fire.

They set off minutes later with Henry leading Garupe roughly north along the course of the river. It is not an easy path and at times Henry stops to wait for Garupe to catch up. Several times they have to stop completely to lower Henry’s pack down steep, rocky outcroppings and help each other to climb down after it, with Henry going first to find the best route and Garupe scrambling after with prayers ever on his lips. With this arduous, halting progress, they tire quickly and must rest often. When even sure-footed Henry slips and tumbles on damp rock near the end of one such descent, he yells back up to Garupe that they will go no further today. He guides Garupe down with calls of where to put his hands and feet, how to shift his weight for better balance, and finally reaches out with his hands to support Garupe in the final, tricky, slippery jump onto safer ground.

It is a good camp site, Henry decides. The ground is flat and not too rocky, and the river has eroded out a slow moving pool fed by the rush of water over the shallow waterfall they have just climbed alongside. Garupe stretches then strips then wades into the pool while Henry sets off to gather fuel and kindling.  
“You pray for God to provide?” Henry calls back. “Now would be good. Ain’t even seen a rabbit.”  
Garupe laughs and wades back out of the water. He takes one of the dry, splintered bamboo stems Henry has collected, inspects it and smiles. “You should have more faith,” he says. “Stay out of the water until I say.”  
Henry watches as Garupe walks to the bank and wades slowly out into the river. Once thigh deep, he barely moves more than an inch at a time as he leans over to peer into the water, splintered bamboo in his hand. Henry sets about building the fire. Descending in altitude has warmed the air a little, but Henry judges that they will still need the cheerful heat even if they have nothing to cook. Every few minutes, he checks on Garupe and sees the priest standing perfectly still, concentration drawing his features into a frown. Then, with a flash of movement, Garupe thrusts the bamboo spear into the water and submerges his upper body after it. When he stands up again, water droplets sparkling like diamonds from his hair and his skin, he holds aloft a large, silvery carp, easily big enough to feed them both well, still twitching weakly on the makeshift spear.

Garupe laughs as he drops the fish beside the fire. “God has provided. Happy now?”  
“Did they teach you that in the seminary?” Henry asks, slightly irritated that Garupe has a skill that he himself lacks.  
“No,” Garupe replies, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Henry’s sour attitude. “When I was a missionary in Macau one of the other priests took me to visit his village. I stayed with his family and they taught me to catch fish with a double-pronged spear.”  
Henry nods and passes his hunting knife to Garupe. “You know what to do?”  
Garupe nods but ignores the knife. “Catch another,” he says, already heading back towards the river. When he returns with two more fat carp, Henry has gutted and scaled the first, and soaked and woven some of the thinner bamboo into baskets to hold the fish over the fire. He takes the fish with a nod of acknowledgment and soon all three are placed by the fire: one close to the heat to sear and two cut into thin fillets and set higher up to dry in the smoke. It won’t be perfect, Henry knows, but at least will keep them from hunger until the following day’s camp.

They let the cooked fish cool then eat it from the bamboo basket with greedy fingers. When only the sucked-clean bones remain, Henry brings more firewood and says he will tend to the fire a while longer and Garupe can sleep. Garupe takes the blanket and settles down near Henry, kneeling in prayer. Henry can’t understand much of the stream of entreaties mumbled by Garupe, but he recognises his own name amongst the jumble of syllables. When Garupe finally makes the sign of the cross and wraps himself in Henry’s blanket, close enough to touch, Henry asks, “Were you praying for me?”  
“Of course,” Garupe replies. “For you, for myself, for my brothers. I ask God that I will endure, that I will have strength to resist temptation, that my faith will not waver. I praise His name and ask Mary to bless us, and the Saints to watch over us and guide our footsteps. I—”  
“No wonder it takes you so long,” Henry says, reaching behind him to pat Garupe’s shoulder in a gesture of friendship. Garupe laughs.  
“I also ask God to reveal my purpose here, but I think He has already shown me my Holy task.” Garupe sits up and puts his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “You are my brother,” he says quietly. “I pray that the brotherly love I feel for you will bring you closer to God. I believe that I am to be the instrument of your return to God’s side.”  
Henry turns his head to make eye contact with Garupe. Garupe holds his gaze and grins, and Henry finds it impossible to hold back his own smile.

Hours later, when the fish strips are dry enough for Henry to stop feeding the smoky fire and curl up with Garupe, he falls asleep almost as soon as he closes his eyes. He wakes again when grey dawn is just beginning to breach the darkness of the forest, the fire no longer glowing, with Garupe clinging to him and murmuring. He can’t make out any words but he can feel the distinct hardness of Garupe’s erection against his hip since the fold of blanket has moved from between them and only the thin layers of Garupe’s tattered robe and the worn out seat of his own trousers separate them, so he closes his eyes again, concentrates on breathing evenly, ignores his own hardening cock and doesn’t move. Garupe holds a little tighter around his waist and his hips barely thrust, but the reaction from Garupe’s body is unmistakable. Garupe’s hips jerk as he breathes out a word and comes.

_Henry!_

Henry bites his lip. He feels Garupe shift and groan and give a half choked off sob as he realises what has happened. He lies in the barest dawn light as Garupe rolls away, gets to his feet and walks away. After a couple of minutes, Henry curses, gets up, and goes after him.


	4. she took of its fruit and ate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for discussion of Garupe’s self harm. Scroll until you see ***** ***** ***** to skip it.

Henry hears Garupe’s cries and recognises the swish and crack of a switch on skin before he sees the man kneeling with his back to him. Garupe swings the cane awkwardly and whips his own back again. Henry darts forward and lunges at Garupe, gripping the priest’s bony wrist and pinning him sideways to the grass beneath the bamboo.  
“You don’t need to do that,” Henry says. “You hear me?”  
Garupe is weeping.  
“I do,” he replies. _“Forasmuch then as Christ hath suffered for us in the flesh, arm yourselves likewise with the same mind: for he that hath suffered in the flesh hath ceased from sin.”_  
“No,” Henry insists, loudly, then softens his voice. “No.”  
Garupe mutters quietly, _“But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway.”_

  
Henry relaxes his grip when he feels Garupe stop struggling and go limp under him.  
“Doesn’t God tell you to love? Surely God made you to worship him and he loves you. Didn’t Christ teach us that God loves each and every one of us?” Henry thinks fast as he moves slowly to take the bamboo switch from Garupe’s hand and throw it away then wraps his arms around Garupe. Verses from his childhood, only half-remembered from Sunday sermons when he used to ignore the preacher and conjure up worlds in his imagination while his parents sat up straight. He remembers one verse, and he remembers the preacher’s rapt face when he recited it every week.  
“Listen to me, Francisco. _For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”_  
Henry feels Garupe’s sobs and hiccups grow calmer.  
“Your God loves you, Francisco. Sometimes I almost believe that your God even loves me.”

  
Garupe sighs and takes a deep breath but does not attempt to get up. “I fell into temptation of the flesh. I am steeped in sin. I must scourge my flesh so that I will be free from sin.”  
“No.” Henry strokes Garupe’s hair back from his forehead. “Confess, repent, receive absolution. Isn’t that what you want me to do?” Garupe nods. “And my sin is far worse than whatever you think you’ve done. Should I be beating myself until I bleed too? Would that help me enter God’s Kingdom?”  
“No,” Garupe says. “You must truly repent.”  
“So there would be no point in it.” Garupe sighs but says nothing. “And you are repentant,” Henry says softly, “so you are forgiven whether you punish yourself or not.” Garupe is still silent. Henry slides over him to lie at his back, one arm cradling his head and the other hand stroking his hair. “If God decides you deserve punishment, then God will punish you in some way. What right have you to choose your own punishment?”  
“I have heard all of your arguments before from learned theologians,” Garupe says, taking the hand that is petting his hair and clasping it close to his chest. Henry scoffs and sighs. ”But it warms my heart to think that you would do this. I can’t explain it to you. When I feel that I must be punished, I must be punished. If I do not... I...” Garupe sighs again. “It releases something in me. After, when the pain ebbs, I feel the Holy Spirit surround me and I know that I am forgiven.”

***** ***** *****

They lie still for another minute or two until Garupe gets restless. Henry stands up and offers Garupe his hand, pulling him to his feet.  
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Henry says. “Then we can eat and get moving.”  
Garupe nods and follows, his robe still bunched around his waist and fluttering like a skirt. At the river bank, Henry strips and wades in, offering Garupe his hand to guide him into the lazy currents in the pool etched out by the waterfall. Garupe follows, still wearing his robe, sits down and struggles to remove the tattered, filthy garment underwater. When he succeeds, he scrubs at it with gravel from the river bed then stands up and drapes it over a low branch that overhangs the river. He allows Henry to examine the new marks on his back.  
“There’s no bleeding,” Henry says. “You shouldn’t do that again when we’ve no iodine and no bandages. Might get infected.”  
Garupe hangs his head. “I have no right to this kindness from you. Satan himself sent a demon in your form to torment my dreams with evil and impurity.”  
Henry has to bite his lip to stop from reacting with either nervous or derisive laughter. Once he is sure he can keep his voice under control, he says, “There are plenty impure things in nature, but that don’t make them evil. Things that happen in dreams? Well. They’re dreams, Francisco. Not real thoughts and deeds.”

Henry brings up his hands, cupped and filled with water, and lets it cascade over Garupe’s back. His attention is caught by the fluttering of Garupe’s robe in the breeze, then the tiredness in his own bones and in the nod and jerk of Garupe’s head.  
“This is a good place,” he says. “There’s plenty of fish, it’s warm enough and I don’t see no sign of danger. I might see if I can get us a rabbit or something. We’ll stay here and rest today, smoke some more fish, then push on tomorrow.”  
Garupe nods and washes his face. Henry clasps Garupe’s shoulder and gets up. He fetches his shirt and breeches and worn-out socks from the bank and sits in the shallows to wash out the grime that stiffens the fabric and makes them chafe as he walks, then hangs his clothes beside Garupe’s robe. He lets the breeze dry his skin then wraps his blanket around himself and goes to collect more firewood. When he comes back with his fourth armful of dried wood and bamboo, Garupe has moved their clothing closer and rearranged it to dry faster, lit the fire, and is turning the bamboo baskets that still contain the fish they were smoking last night. There is another fresh catch, a long-bodied predator with large jaws and pointed teeth, by his side. Garupe cleans it and cuts it into sections, some for smoking and saving, some to skewer, char and eat now. The meat is dense, chewy and flavourful, and Garupe wishes aloud for a cooking pot, spices and herbs to make soup from the fish heads.

They spend all morning in this way: Garupe tending the smoky fire while Henry brings firewood, Henry tending the fire while Garupe fishes, until Henry says they have as much as they will be able to carry. Henry weaves and soaks a makeshift barrier to direct the smoke and speed up the drying process, then sits with Garupe, sharing both blanket and body warmth, watching the fire. Garupe leans against Henry with his head dropping onto Henry’s shoulder as he dozes. For just a single instant Henry thinks if they were to remain here indefinitely then he could be content, but the obligations and interests that demand his return home flood his mind and the moment passes. Still, he supports Garupe’s back carefully and lowers him to lie on the ground, folds his greatcoat to make a pillow and watches him sleep while his own eyes struggle to remain open.

A sudden noise has Henry on full alert. He’s not sure where it came from, or how long he has been asleep, but he’s ready to spring to his feet as soon as he hears it again. It comes soon, a crack and a soft curse and a laugh. He crouches, reaches for the pistol in his pack, checks it is loaded and faces the direction the sound came from.  
“Hmm, something smells good,” a voice calls through the forest. “Hey! This way.”  
Henry waits, frowning into the forest. Garupe starts to rise but Henry shushes him and puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him low.  
“No kidding,” another voice says. The unmistakable sound of tramping boots grows louder until two women stop at the edge of their little clearing. The taller one looks sideways at the other. “Do you see a naked man pointing a gun at us?”  
“I do. But I don’t think he wants to shoot us,” the smaller woman says.  
“I promise we are not here to steal your clothes,” the taller one calls over. “Looks like someone beat us to it. We can trade you a coat for some ammunition and some of whatever you’re eating.”  
“Hands up and move slow,” Henry barks out. Garupe sits up and wraps the blanket around himself despite the pressure of Henry’s hand on his shoulder. The two women raise their empty hands to shoulder height and step forwards.  
“Drop your packs.”  
“I can’t keep my hands up and drop my pack at the same time,” the smaller woman says. Henry scrutinises her frowning face but does not lower his weapon.  
Garupe looks at the women then at Henry. He puts his hand on Henry’s gun arm, careful to move gently. “Brother, this is no welcome for our sisters.” He waits for Henry to point the pistol down. “Please,” he says to the women. “Come pray with us and share what warmth and food we can offer by the Grace of God.”

As they sit by the fire, Henry looks at the women more closely. The taller one looks like a warrior from a storybook his grandmother used to read to him from before he grew out of fairytales. The smaller one, a girl maybe in her late teens or perhaps twenty, has a softer face but the lean muscles of someone toughened by hard work. He sighs, unloads his pistol and puts it away. Garupe smiles at him and gets up. He picks up Henry’s breeches and throws them to him, shakes out his robe and walks away to dress in the relative privacy of the ferns that soften the edges of the clearing. When he returns, both women are eating as if they have been half-starved for weeks and there is a dark green coat beside Henry’s pack.

Garupe says a prayer over their meal and sits down to eat. The women have little interest in idle talk, and Garupe’s attempt to engage them in prayer falls flat. When he addresses the smaller woman as _my child,_ the warrior looks as if she might rip his throat out and not give it a second thought. As they eat their fill and Henry calculates how many days’ food they have left for themselves, Garupe smiles at both women.  
“You should join us,” he says. “Four people stand a better chance than two. There must be a village on this river and, through my companion, God will guide us to it.”  
“Which way are you heading?” the younger one asks.  
“North and east,” Henry says, pointing down river. “You?”  
“South and west,” the warrior says immediately, pointing up river. “Thank you for the ammo and supplies,” she says. “Good luck finding whatever you’re looking for.”  
The smaller woman is already shouldering her pack. They set off back through the forest the way they came.

Henry suggests moving camp. He has packed what dried fish remains after the women took a day’s supply, and is letting the fire die down. “The young one’s all right, but the older one would slit your throat to steal your breakfast,” he says. “I think we should camp somewhere else tonight. Just in case they come back.”  
Garupe nods. “I felt a bond with the girl. She could be my sister in Christ. But the other woman? I am glad they refused our companionship. Women are temptresses who burn hot for the devil. I thank God that I am immune to their evil charms.”  
Henry drops his bag and smothers the fire with green branches. He glares at Garupe. “Is your mother an evil temptress?” he asks. He moves closer, a threatening tone in his voice. “Does mine burn for the devil? What about my sister?”  
“Of course not!” Garupe says immediately. “God has a place for good and pious women.”  
“Well,” Henry says. “If you think you are about to tell me that my womenfolk can look forward to spending an eternity on the celestial laundry, or servicing some demonic dick, then you have another think coming.”  
Henry picks up his pack and sets off at a march. Garupe scatters the embers of the fire, says a quick prayer over their rapidly cooling hearthstones, picks up his new coat and follows.

_I have angered your holy vessel, Father. In your gracious love, Lord God, show me the error of my ways and bring me to salvation._


	5. Whoever believes in him should not perish

Garupe keeps the grey-blue of Henry’s coat in sight up ahead but does not try to catch up. Henry occasionally halts and looks back to see that Garupe is following in the dark green coat the warrior gave them in exchange for food and a share of Henry’s remaining handful of bullets. He chooses a new site a little back from the riverbank, under cover of bamboo and curling ferns, and takes out his blanket. Garupe sits nearby, silently at prayer, until Henry huffs and beckons him over. They share the blanket for protection from the chill of the ground, and share both coats as covering against the cold of the approaching night. If Henry wakes at a sound in the darkness with Garupe’s arm around him and Garupe’s bony knees pressed into the angle of his own, then that is simply a matter of the need for warmth and comfort. Still, he clasps Garupe’s hand in his own and shuffles a little closer.

When morning arrives, Garupe’s warmth is still at his back. Henry rubs his face and yawns then rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself to his knees. Garupe is watching him.  
“Will you pray with me?” Garupe asks, in lieu of _good morning._ Henry frowns. Usually he would have tasks to complete: food to prepare, a camp to pack up and a fireplace to scatter and hide. But today he does not. “Please,” Garupe adds, as if picking up on his almost made up mind.  
Henry sighs and nods. “Keep it short,” he says. “We ought to get moving.”  
Garupe smiles and gets up. He takes Henry’s hand and they kneel side by side on the blanket. He starts with words in slow Latin that Henry finds vaguely familiar from school, and Henry almost joins in with a half-remembered _sanctus, sanctus, sanctus,_ but fails to keep a stern expression when he catches Garupe glancing sideways at him and smiling. When Garupe eventually intones the closing words of the _Te Deum,_ he switches from Latin to Spanish. Henry is already trying to rise, but Garupe holds his hand tightly and gives thanks to God for providing them with food when they are hungry and shelter when they must rest. He asks that their journey not be more than they can bear and, as Henry starts to fidget in earnest, for patience. Henry laughs and shakes his head through the _Amen_ and Garupe calls him a heathen. Something in Garupe’s face, a fondness of his expression, warms Henry from the inside.

They set off following the river. The way is easier than it was before, with a few rocky but gentle descents and some larger outcroppings they skirt around, always keeping the sound of the water in earshot, until just after mid-day. They stop to eat and to look fearfully down over the sheer grey stone face dropping from this plateau down to the field of jagged boulders below. The sight of it makes Henry light headed and dries his mouth.  
“Henry,” Garupe puts his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I will attempt to climb down if you say that we will survive it,” he says. “I trust God who brought you to me when I pleaded for a light to guide me through darkness, therefore I trust you. But I will need time to prepare. To pray that my faith be strengthened.”  
“No,” Henry replies, putting his arms around Garupe’s waist as they peer down again. “We can’t climb down that.”  
“Then we must either leave the river and find an easier path, or retrace our steps,” Garupe says with a shrug. “Or trust our lives to God and the river.”  
“We‘re not going back,” Henry says with a slight shake of his head. “We know there’s nothing for three, four days’ journey back that way.” Henry looks into the deep greens and browns of the forest, merging to impenetrable black, then at the river. Strong but slow currents funnel through the boulders, speeding up until the water churns white and gushes noisily over the waterfall. “We could go upstream a little and cross. The other bank looks easier.” He points at where a rock fall has turned the sheer cliff face into a descent less steep but still difficult.  
Garupe stiffens and Henry notices his fearful expression. Henry pulls him into an embrace. “So, Padre, do we leave the river or throw ourselves at its mercy?”  
Garupe relaxes with a deep sigh. He holds tightly around Henry’s shoulders, kisses his forehead, then takes Henry’s hand and leads him into the forest.

By mid-morning, it is clear to Henry that the forest offers them no easy route around the waterfall. When they stop to eat, sitting with their backs against bamboo stems so thick and so close together that their legs overlap, he meets Garupe’s dejected gaze, shakes his head and offers a comforting smile while the bamboo creaks and knocks far above their heads.  
“It was a good idea, but this part of the forest is too dense,” Henry says. “At least we know that now. We can head back upriver to where the current is easier and swim across.”  
“We can’t,” Garupe replies. He sighs heavily. “At least I can’t.”  
Henry frowns. “I know there are plenty of rules saying you can’t do this or that, but there’s nothing in your faith as far as I know that forbids swimming.”  
“I can’t swim,” Garupe confesses after a minute, not meeting Henry’s look of surprise.  
There’s another moment of silence broken by the hollow banging and swishing of the bamboo, then Henry leans forwards to squeeze Garupe’s leg. “We have to go back to the river anyway,” he says. “We can decide what to do once we get there.”

It doesn’t seem to take as long to return to the river as it took to get such a scant distance away from it. They retrace their steps upriver for a while, and Henry takes advantage of Garupe’s companionable silence to take more notice of their surroundings this time. He stops when he judges the river to be calm and predictable, throws a few dried sticks in and watches them slowly float downstream.  
“Here’ll do,” he says. “I thought of something. If we can collect enough fallen stems we can build a raft. I can cut the deerskin into strips and twist it into rope to tie it together.”  
Garupe nods enthusiastically. “How big?” he asks.  
“As long as you are tall, and two more longer still,” Henry replies, and Garupe vanishes into the forest with a wave and a smile.

He returns with one or two thick, brown-yellow dried stems at a time, dragging the longer ones behind him, balancing the shorter ones on his shoulders. Henry works with the half-dried deerskin, soaking it and slicing it carefully into a thin spiral twisting it into cord. There’s only enough to lash the frame together and he asks Garupe to look out for tough vines. On Garupe’s next trip, he guides Henry into the forest where thick tendrils corkscrew up the bamboo to reach sunlight far above, and Henry cuts long pieces to braid together into twine. It is several hours’ worth of work to make rope and secure the raft pieces together, and Garupe’s trips to find fallen stems of the ideal length are taking longer and longer. As afternoon stretches into evening, Henry starts to worry that Garupe might become lost or fall and get hurt. He decides to go in search of Garupe, but as he stands and stretches from his task, Garupe returns. He drops a longer but thinner stem with a grimace and a sharp intake of breath, sits on the ground then flops onto his back in the warmth of late afternoon golden sunlight. Henry sees that his hands are stained with dirt and drying blood.  
“That’s enough,” he says. “Let me see your hands.”

Garupe holds his hands up for inspection. Henry tuts and shakes his head. He takes Garupe by the arms and pulls him to his feet, walks him to the river.  
“Wash the dirt off and show me again,” Henry says.  
“Help me take my robe off,” Garupe says. “My fingers and arms ache so much I don’t think I can untie my belt.”  
“If you’re getting in I’ll get in with you.” Henry unties Garupe’s robe then drapes it over the makeshift raft. He undresses too then helps Garupe into the shallows at the very edge of the river. It gets deeper very suddenly and after a false step that threatens to send him sliding under the surface, Garupe clings to Henry and mumbles a prayer. Henry guides him back and they sit in chest-deep water, scrubbing the dirt from their skin and soothing the aches away from their muscles. Garupe shows his clean hands to Henry. There are three large splinters embedded in Garupe’s skin. Henry takes Garupe’s hand and brings it to his mouth. He seals his lips around the heel of Garupe’s hand where the largest splinter is and gently sucks it out, drawing his teeth closed across the skin to grip the tiny piece that still protrudes. When he feels Garupe flinch and the shard comes away between his incisors, he spits it out and inspects the tiny red dot that shows where the splinter had entered. Garupe is staring at him, lips parted. Henry smiles and inspects the second splinter. For a moment, Henry imagines kissing those lips instead, but settles for carefully tending to Garupe's injuries.

They get out of the water and test the raft’s strength then feast on the last of the dried fish whilst letting the air dry them. Henry smiles at the sight of Garupe’s face as he eats, still very lean but losing the emaciated hollowness of his cheeks and the sunken depth of his eyes. Garupe smiles at him and Henry looks away, feeling heat rise up his neck and blossom in his face. He should ask, he knows. He should ask Garupe about life with his brothers: if there was any particular closeness between his brothers and whether this was condemned as an affront or celebrated as a form of love. He dresses, tuning away for a moment, deciding that he will find words, find a way to express his affection for this strange man. But when he turns to face Garupe, Garupe sweeps him into a tight embrace.  
“There is not a moment that I do not thank God for your presence in this place,” Garupe says. “You have a resourcefulness and bravery that I lack, and I have faith and patience that you lack. Separately I fear we would both perish. But together? Ah, God brought us together knowing that we would find in each other that which we need to thrive. I give thanks that he brought you to me, brother, and me to you.”  
Henry grips tightly to Garupe and accepts a kiss on each cheek. He blinks the prickling from behind his eyelids. “Brother,” he says. “Brotherly love, isn’t that the thing!”  
Garupe laughs and gives him a firm squeeze before letting go. “Yes, Brother Andrew!”  
“Well, Brother Francisco,” Henry says, pointing at the raft. “That river ain’t crossing itself.”

Garupe laughs and Henry is delighted at the sound. Between them, they haul the raft to the shallow water. Henry hands Garupe his pack, empty of food but stuffed with the blanket and both their thick coats.  
“You keep hold of that. I’ll steer.” Henry hefts the last long, dried stem that Garupe brought, the one that was too long and too slender for the raft. He wades out, pushing the raft until the construction floats. Garupe clambers on, clinging to the edge. Henry leaps on after him and uses the long pole to punt them into the deeper water. It’s slow progress and they are swept gradually downstream, but Henry calculates that he has allowed plenty of distance for their leisurely crossing. By dark, he reckons, they will be safe, if soaked, on the far bank. There will be a fire to dry their clothing and in the morning perhaps Garupe will catch a fish.

It is while Henry is lost in thought of a fat, silvery carp roasting on a cheerful fire, and a kiss for Brother Garupe, that a deeper, faster current catches the pole and wrenches it from his grip. Henry curses and loses his balance, windmilling his arms. The raft pitches and spins, flinging Henry off into the river. Disorientated, Henry surfaces and looks around at the forest flashing past beyond the riverbank. He manages to keep his head above water and turns, fear paralysing him as he recognises the rocky bank of the churning river before the waterfall. He looks around again, breath coming in short gasps and wails. Suddenly, the water roars and is silent. Time slows as he tumbles and falls. There is a ringing and buzzing in his ears and all he sees is darkness.

With the thought of his undeclared love for a man unlike any he as ever met before, Captain Henry cries out to a God he barely believes in to save his Brother Garupe.


	6. when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you

When Henry comes to, prone, gasping and coughing and retching, he is numb from the cold, soaked and it takes him a few seconds to realise he can’t see simply because it is dark and the roar in his ears is only the sound of the waterfall muffled by a little distance. His head is pulsating with a dull ache and he feels like he has been kicked in the ribs. A weight pushes firmly on his back and pain sears through his torso, but before he can take a breath to cry out, he coughs and water spews from his mouth and nose.  
“Christ almighty!” he cries out, but his voice cracks and wheezes.  
“Henry! Henry, oh my guiding light!”  
Arms encircle his shoulders and he feels himself being partly lifted, party dragged across the hard ground then laid down with a groan that may or may not be his own. He is rolled onto his side and a hand caresses his face.  
“I thought you had drowned. I thought—” The soft voice breaks into a series of sobs. A minute later, Henry hears Garupe praying beside him but he recognises little of the rapid Portuguese of Garupe’s most personal communications with his God. Comforted by the sound, he drifts into fitful sleep.

When he wakes again and his head stops spinning, Henry tries to push himself up with his arms. “Cold,” he croaks, “fire,” then sinks back down.  
Garupe sets to the task of building a fire immediately. Henry realises after a few minutes of watching Garupe work that his wet clothes are gone and he is lying on the blanket, wearing Garupe’s green wool coat, and has his own coat rolled up for a pillow. He smiles as Garupe makes a pyramid of twigs and fills it with a loose ball of dry leaves, then takes the flint and steel from Henry’s pack and sets about making sparks. He strikes and strikes again sending showers of orange-white sparks over the kindling.  
“In Macau we had easier ways of igniting tinder,” he says. “The seminary had a supply of pine sticks that would catch fire due to some substance coated on the end. We traded for them with our Chinese brothers. If the fire was particularly unwilling to be coaxed into life, we would use gunpowder too. Just a little, mixed with the kindling.”  
Henry laughs hoarsely and waves at Garupe. “Bring me my pack. I can get you gunpowder if that’s what you need.”  
Garupe brings the pack over and Henry pushes himself to sit up. He takes one of his precious bullets and carefully opens it with his knife.  
“Bring me a dry leaf, a wide, flat one,” he instructs. Garupe selects one from the kindling and holds it out. Henry taps the black powder out from the casing of the bullet and onto the leaf. “Will that do?” he asks. Garupe flashes him a grin and nods. He returns to the kindling pile, sprinkles the gunpowder over it and sets to sparking the steel on the flint edge again. This time the fire catches on the third attempt and Garupe guards it carefully, breathing it into life before adding more twigs. Soon there are enough larger twigs for him to leave Henry in charge of keeping it lit while he searches the forest edge by moonlight for more dry wood.

When Garupe returns and builds the fire up, Henry can see that his wet clothing is draped over what must be the remains of the raft. Most of the bamboo poles are missing and the rest are twisted and splintered and bent to form an uneven frame. His boots stick up, impaled upside down on two uprights. Henry frowns and shakes his head.  
“Francisco, what happened? I felt the pole wrenched from my hands and lost my balance. Next thing I know, I’m in the river and you’re nowhere in sight.” He reaches his hand out to clasp Garupe’s arm. “I thought you must have been pulled under and drowned.”  
Garupe sits closer and puts his arm around Henry’s shoulders. “As you see, I was spared. My task is not complete so God does not call me to his side yet.”  
“Then your task is not to bring me to God,” Henry replies. “Because I prayed, Francisco. In the instant I knew you were gone, when I fell over the waterfall, I prayed with all my heart that you would not be harmed.”  
Garupe holds Henry tighter, his other hand coming up to stroke Henry’s face. Henry leans his head on Garupe’s shoulder.  
“I saw you fall and the river swept you away. I clung to the raft with all my strength and begged God not to take you from me yet.” Garupe turns and kisses Henry’s forehead. “God granted us a miracle. As the river got faster and wilder, I found the strength to hold on and I sailed over the edge. The raft splintered and plummeted into the water. The rocks claimed part of it, but it broke my fall and there were enough pieces left to let me float. I saw you washed to the shallows at the edge of the river and I kicked to hasten my way over, pulled you out of the river, laid you on your belly and pushed the water from your body.”

Garupe is quiet now. Henry wraps his arms around Garupe’s waist and they cling together. Henry’s eyes watch the flames dance and the sparks float up. Garupe shifts to put another couple of dry sections of bamboo on the fire and when he comes back, he gathers Henry into his arms and kisses both cheeks. Henry returns the gesture then smiles.  
“We should sleep,” he says, shaking out his own coat and offering it to Garupe.  
Garupe nods and lies down, pulling Henry close to him and covering them both as best he can with the coat. He rolls onto his back and pats his shoulder. “Lie your head here,” he says, quietly, lifting his arm. Henry shuffles over into Garupe’s embrace, his cheek on the rough fabric of the front of Garupe’s shoulder, his arm around Garupe’s waist and his legs stretched out beside Garupe’s long limbs. With his free arm, Garupe rearranges their covering better.  
Henry raises his head. “Thank you,” he says.  
Garupe turns his face to look at the firelight glinting in Henry’s eyes. “Thank you too,” he says softly.  
They watch each other for a few more seconds, then Garupe presses a light kiss to Henry’s forehead, another to his cheek, and one last kiss to his lips before lying back again.  
“Go to sleep, my guiding light,” he says. “And praise God in your dreams.”  
“I can’t believe,” Henry says softly, “that after all that we’re still on the same side of that blasted river.”  
He feels Garupe’s chest shudder with laughter. “Then that is where we are meant to be,” Garupe says. “Go to sleep.”

Henry sleeps fitfully, slipping from Garupe’s warmth often to deal with the physical aftereffects of having swallowed so much water, but each time he rises he feels his breathing less laboured and his stomach less painful. Each time he returns to Garupe, he feels the man flinch from the cold of his skin then laugh and pull him back into the warmth. The second time Garupe welcomes him back with a kiss, Henry kisses him too and Garupe holds him closer.

When the first grey of dawn eases into the air, Henry rises and Garupe follows.  
“You should rest today,” Garupe says as he starts to build a new pyramid of twigs and kindling on top of the ash of last night’s. “You look like you’ve been kicked by a mule.”  
“Don’t need a fire. There’s nothing to cook,” Henry says, pulling his shirt on, hiding the purple and red bruising on his ribs. “I can walk. We can go slow, but we should keep moving.” He shakes out his trousers. The thicker fabric around the waist is still damp. “And we need more food.” Garupe sighs and looks at the river. Henry tightens his lips. “You don’t have to fish, I expect there will be rabbits or deer or something. I can spare a bullet for that,” he says and Garupe’s expression immediately eases.  
Garupe walks over and hugs Henry. “I will get back into the river if there is no alternative.”  
Henry smiles, kisses Garupe’s cheek and shakes his head. He crouches to take his pistol from the pack that escaped the worst of the water due to having been secured to Garupe’s back, and therefore was only submerged enough to wet the thick, waxed canvas. He checks it over, loads it and leaves it in the top of his pack. Then he finishes dressing, grimacing at the cold damp of his trousers and turns away to prevent Garupe from seeing his face display the pain from his ribs when he pulls on his boots. He knows he will chafe and blister but reasons that the more miles he puts between himself and the waterfall, the better he will feel.


	7. Whoever does not love does not know God

It takes the better part of four painful hours for Henry to admit that Garupe is right. After Henry’s third fall on a relatively easy scramble, Garupe looks around at the flat ground they reach, set here and there with boulders that protrude from the grass, declares that this is as good as anywhere for a camp, takes the pack off and sits on the ground beside it, glaring defiantly up at Henry. Henry sighs and winces at the pain in his freshly-scraped ribs.  
“Will it make you happy if I say I should have listened to you?” he snaps.  
Garupe shrugs. “It will make me happy if you rest, brother.”  
Henry watches Garupe’s face. There is no trace of the annoyance he thinks should be there, and no trace of blame for their situation. He sinks to the grass beside Garupe and lies flat in an attempt to ease his aches.  
“I wish I had listened to you before. If I had agreed to go back upriver instead of trying to cross it, I wouldn’t have put our lives in danger for nothing.”  
“If only ordinary vision was as perfect as hindsight,” Garupe says with a rueful smile. “Then think how dull and predictable our lives would be.” He gets up and puts his hand out as a sign that Henry should stay where he is. “I will bring kindling and firewood.”  
Henry pushes himself to his feet anyway and takes his pistol from the pack. “I can help. Maybe we’ll find animal tracks.”

They leave the pack and walk into the forest. The tall stems are less densely crowded and there is enough light filtering down for ferns to spring up in clumps, lush and tall. Garupe gathers pieces of fallen bamboo as long as his arm and Henry removes his shirt and ties it as a makeshift sling to carry kindling and smaller sticks. They work in sight of each other without the need for speech, until Henry holds up his hand and waves, motioning Garupe into stillness and silence. In front of them is a large patch of ferns as high as Henry’s shoulders, taking advantage of the break in the canopy where a giant stem has fallen and taken a neighbour down with it. Henry listens intently and Garupe uses the silence as a chance for quiet contemplation. Above, the bamboo creaks and knocks as it sways and rubs, the leaves whisper in the breeze. Behind, the river splashes and gurgles and, if he concentrates, Garupe can just hear the roar of the waterfall. In front, something scratches in the undergrowth, making the green fronds rustle.

Henry puts down his bundle of kindling and slowly moves forwards, stalking his prey. He freezes as the ferns at the very edge twitch and part, and a tawny-feathered head pokes out low to the ground, beady-eyed and beaked. The fowl scratches and pecks the ground, emits a soft _bok-bok-bok_ sound and emerges, followed by three more. Garupe has his hands full and doesn’t dare move for fear of scaring the fowl back into the cover of the ferns. He looks over at Henry, who holds his hand out slowly in a gesture that means _stop._ The small flock appears unconcerned by their presence, and after another minute a few more appear. They scratch and peck their way closer and closer until one is close enough to try for a taste of Garupe’s big toe. When Garupe moves his foot, the bird flutters its stubby wings and squawks once, causing the others to look up in frozen silence for a few seconds. When no further danger presents they resume their foraging.

Garupe slowly puts down his collection of firewood, temporarily scattering the birds investigating his bare feet, and adopts a stance that mirrors Henry’s ready crouch. Henry lunges and Garupe springs a fraction of a second after him. By the time the flock has screeched its alarm and vanished under cover, Henry and Garupe both hold two limp forms by the neck, one in each hand. They look at each other and laugh.

The return journey to the riverside is cheerful. Henry adds his catch to his bundle and slings it over his shoulder then holds Garupe’s fowl while he collects up his armful of fuel. They walk side by side where they can, bumping shoulders, and in close single file when they cannot. While Garupe goes back for more firewood, Henry sits on a boulder just downwind of their campsite and plucks the birds with quick, rapid tugs of a few feathers at a time before the carcasses cool too much and the skin tightens. Next, he sets about the task of making a fire, bringing river-smoothed rocks one or two at a time to form a hearth, groaning in pain every time he has to bend and lift now that Garupe is not here to witness his weakness.

Eventually Garupe returns, drops an armful of firewood, and instead of heading out for more this time, he sits hip to hip beside Henry on one of the larger boulders. Henry gasps in pain and holds his breath. Garupe is on his feet and apologising in an instant. Henry shuffles across the surface of the rock and pats the new space he has made. “Sit here instead,” he says. “This side doesn’t hurt so bad.”  
Garupe sits and leaves a clear hand-width of space between them. Henry puts his arm around Garupe’s waist.  
“You must have broken your ribs,” Garupe says.  
“Three or four of them, I think,” Henry says. “They’ll heal. Not the first time I broke a rib. Hurts like hell.” Henry laughs. “Is that blasphemy?”  
Garupe shrugs. “Technically, you are not taking God’s name in vain. But I would not curse like that around my Reverend Father or the most devout of my Brothers.”  
“I don’t believe you are capable of cursing,” Henry says with a smile.  
Garupe laughs. “Idle talk was discouraged as vanity,” he replies. “I spent many hours in silent devotion with my brothers.” Henry takes a sharp breath in when Garupe nudges him with his elbow. “The lack of idle chatter meant that gossip spread slowly.”  
Henry moves carefully to ease the ache in his side as much as possible. “What on Earth would a group of holy missionaries have to gossip about?”  
“Oh, the same as everyone else, I think,” Garupe says. “Disagreements over interpretation of scripture and complaints about the food, mostly. Family. Friendships.” He pauses before he adds, “Lovers.”

Henry is silent for so long that Garupe sighs. “Have I shocked you?”  
“Don’t you all take a vow of celibacy?”  
“Of course,” Garupe replies. “We abstain from sexual relationships and we do not marry. That does not prevent close bonds between brothers, even though it is discouraged.”  
Henry is quiet again, frowning. Eventually he asks, “Did... do you have a... a brother you are particularly close to?”  
“I did have once, but when the Reverend Father found out, I was sent to Macau and he was sent to Brazil.”  
“Is such a relationship, I mean between men instead of between a man and a woman, not considered sinful?”  
Garupe shrugs again. “Some say so. Others say no. I cannot understand how such a feeling of love shared with one of my brothers could condemn us both to eternal damnation. Christ taught us to love one another, not to assign value to some forms of love and not others.”  
“But in the Bible it says—”  
“Do not lecture me on the Bible, Brother Andrew! The Bible says many things that we choose to disregard,” Garupe blurts out. “I will follow with devotion the words of Christ contained in the Gospels and the teachings of those who heard those words, and the teachings of our blessed saints who have been touched by God. My vows concern poverty, chastity and obedience. There is nothing in my vows that requires me to hoard brotherly love or give it out in measures as if it were in short supply.”  
Henry pokes Garupe in the side then hugs him. Garupe laughs. “Your turn. Have you a wife or a sweetheart?”  
“No,” Henry says. “But I suppose I will marry and have children when the time is right.”  
Garupe nods. “Most men do. I will kindle our fire.”  
“Then I will finish preparing the fowl,” Henry replies, and both get up to busy themselves with their tasks.

There is little talk apart from what’s necessary. Henry eases off his boots and places them close to the ring of hearth stones, then asks for Garupe’s help to set two of the fowl to roast at a safe height above the flames while he butchers and sewers the meat from the other two. When hot droplets start to fall and hiss from the birds above the fire, Henry holds the skewered meat up to coat it in the fat, and soon they have a meal to meet their hunger. When they have eaten all they want and wrapped the rest for later, they sit together quietly under a darkening indigo sky, faces reflecting orange flickers. Henry keeps the fire fed to roast and smoke the two birds that will save them from hunger tomorrow, and Garupe kneels in prayer. Henry is only concentrating on the rise and fall of Garupe’s syllables, not what the words might be, but he smiles each time he recognises his own name. When he feels that Garupe ought to be drawing towards his final set of _A-a-men_ -s, he kneels beside him. Without turning his head or opening his eyes, Garupe reaches for Henry’s hand and clasps it.

Once the last, long, drawn-out _aa-a-am-e-e-en_ is intoned, Garupe lifts Henry’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. Henry releases Garupe’s hand and instead cups his jaw. He tries to lean over to kiss Garupe, but the pain in his ribs makes him wince and he gives up after only the slightest movement towards Garupe. Perhaps sensing Henry’s intent, Garupe shifts closer and kisses his lips. Unlike the quick as a dare kisses they exchanged in the early hours before dawn, Garupe lingers and Henry follows when he moves his head back. They sit for a while longer, foreheads touching and eyes closed, Henry’s hand idly playing with Garupe’s soft, sparse beard and Garupe’s hand behind Henry’s neck to support his head. With a soft sigh, Garupe kisses Henry again and sits back to watch the fire.  
“Come on, brother,” Henry says. “Let’s get some sleep.”


	8. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out

Henry wakes with the cold hearth at his back and Garupe warm in front of him. They had started the night the other way around, but Henry either had to lie on his injured side or have the weight of Garupe’s arm accidentally pressing on his damaged ribs so he had suggested they swap position. Henry brings his knees up to fit the angle made by Garupe’s legs and holds fast around Garupe’s chest, sleepily pressing a light kiss to the back of Garupe’s neck, enjoying the feel of bare skin where their legs touch. Garupe shudders and laughs, clasps Henry’s hand and kisses it.  
“Good morning, Brother Andrew.”  
Henry pushes his trapped arm through the space made by Garupe’s neck and holds him close. He kisses Garupe again just where the protruding vertebra marks where his neck ends and his back begins. Still warm and sleepy, Henry trails a line of kisses up the back of Garupe’s neck to his hairline. Garupe shivers and clasps Henry’s hand tighter to his chest. Gradually becoming more awake, Henry dares to draw the point of his tongue up the same path, ending with the softest touch of his teeth at Garupe’s hairline. Garupe hunches his shoulders, jerks forward and laughs.  
“I must see to my personal devotions, brother,” he says, getting up and walking away between the bamboo and ferns until he is out of sight.

Henry eases himself up too, the pain from his injuries causing his erection to soften. Henry follows Garupe into the forest, but stops when he thinks he can hear his voice, low and measured, and another rhythmic sound under it. He desperately wants to move closer, watch Garupe deal with his physical desire, but it is an intrusion that he thinks Garupe would not welcome. Instead, Henry rests his back against one of the pliant stems, feels it bend slightly and creak against his weight, and takes his cock in his hand. He closes his eyes and thinks of Garupe’s warm skin, deep brown eyes and soft lips. He bites his lip to stay quiet while he strokes his cock and teases his balls. Somewhere up ahead he knows Garupe is doing the same, on his knees probably, ready to punish himself afterwards. The thought of Garupe nude and kneeling with his cock in his hand, face contorted into an expression half guilt and half pleasure, is enough to make Henry speed up and chase his own climax. He comes with a quiet moan then returns to the river bank to wash before he can hear the swish and slap of a cane on Garupe’s back.

While he waits for Garupe to return, Henry dresses, wraps the two fowl that smoked over last night’s fire and cooled overnight, packs up their camp and dismantles their hearth one stone at a time. Garupe returns looking serene. Henry shoots him a concerned look and Garupe smiles.  
“Don’t worry, Brother Andrew. I was not so hard on myself that I won’t be able to bear the weight of the pack on my back.”  
“Should I not have kissed you like that?” Henry asks. “I don’t want to cause you pain.”  
Garupe shrugs. “I have brothers who say that lustful thoughts and acts of Onanism are as sinful as fornication, that indulging in any form of release is a betrayal of our vow of celibacy, that thinking is the same as doing.” He drops his robe from his shoulders when Henry motions for him to turn. “It is a matter on which God is strangely silent. Are we to believe that God simply forgot to mention it at all?”  
“You have a little bleeding. Not too bad. Let me clean it for you.” Henry takes Garupe’s hand and leads him to the river bank. “Sit here.” He fills his canteen and pours a little water over the red marks where blood oozes through damaged skin. “When I was a boy, my Padre said we’d go blind. We always laughed at him because he wore spectacles thick as the bottoms of two bottles.”  
Garupe smiles. “The apostle Paul said that no temptation will overtake you except what is common to mankind, and that God will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, He will provide a way that you can endure it.” Garupe shifts under Henry’s probing at his back and Henry mutters a quiet apology. “Some of my brothers and I interpret that passage to mean that when we are beset by lustful thoughts we may deal with them privately. Why be in torment when it is a matter that can be so easily resolved?”  
“And your eyesight?” Henry asks, easing Garupe’s robe back onto his shoulders and kissing the curve of his neck. Garupe turns and smiles.  
“Filled with the beauty of your green eyes,” he says. Henry laughs and tells him to be silent.

Henry attempts to lift the pack onto his own back, but makes no protest when Garupe takes it from him and shoulders it himself. They continue downriver without any more rocky descents and the river becomes wide and slow as the terrain flattens out. When they reach the edge of a marsh that sucks at Henry’s boot, Garupe suggests leaving the river and staying on dry ground. Henry nods and follows Garupe. The forest is changing. There is still creaking and knocking bamboo, but other trees are staking their claim to soil and sunlight. They rest beneath the canopy of one of these broad-leaved giants and share one of the smoked fowl. Henry waits while Garupe gives thanks to God, then pulls his half apart and eats with his fingers. Garupe takes huge bites directly from his and finishes first, leaving only sucked-clean bones. Henry holds out a piece of leg meat.  
“You look like you need it more than me,” he says, waving the shred of meat and biting into the portion that still clings to the bone in his other hand. Garupe shuffles closer on his knees, takes Henry’s hand and bites the meat from his fingers. Henry laughs and jerks his hand back but Garupe holds on while he chews and swallows, then sucks each finger clean. Only then does Garupe release Henry’s hand. He waits. Henry meets his steady gaze and mirrors his smile. He pulls another piece of meat from the bone and holds it out. Garupe again takes it from his fingers and sucks each digit slowly afterwards.  
“If you do that again,” Henry says, “I will need a few minutes to, ah, how did you put it? Endure temptation in private.”

Garupe doesn’t move. Henry tears another sliver and holds it up. Garupe holds his hand, takes the morsel in his lips, chews and swallows then leans forward and kisses Henry on the lips. Henry tips over backwards, crying out once in pain when his back hits the ground and jars his ribs. Garupe kisses him gently.  
“You can do whatever you want to do,” he says. “I took a vow of celibacy. You did not.”  
He kisses Henry again then moves so that he is lying on his belly beside him at an angle that keeps their bodies from touching but allows him to kiss Henry in comfort, with slow, gentle movements of parted lips. Henry closes his eyes and lets his imagination carry him into a fantasy where Garupe abandons his vow of celibacy and allows Henry to slip his hand inside his robe and feel that cock fill out, hot and heavy, stroke it and kiss it and suck on the head while he receives the same treatment in return. He strokes Garupe’s hair and cups his jaw, slipping his soft tongue across Garupe’s lip. Garupe moves back and sighs. Henry gasps a complaint.  
“You do not have to resist temptation, Brother Andrew.”  
“Oh you have no idea what temptations I am resisting,” Henry says. “I don’t want to be your downfall, Francisco. I don’t want you to feel like you have done something shameful.”  
“You worry too much,” Garupe says, leaning down to kiss Henry again. “You may not touch me and I may not touch you. That is all. There is no shame in you touching yourself.”

Henry curses quietly and Garupe makes a fake shocked face then kisses him, backing off when Henry gets too enthusiastic, leaning in when Henry relents. He strokes Henry’s beard and the sensation sends shivers up and down Henry’s spine and starts a familiar tingle in his groin. He unfastens his trousers, slips his hand inside and lets his fantasy take over again. Garupe strokes his face as he comes, kisses him softly as he comes down. Then he rolls to the side and gets up. Henry watches Garupe walk a short distance to find privacy, but occupies himself with cleaning up and fixing his clothing instead of watching and listening. He hopes there will be a discussion about that some other day.

Soon they are on their way again. Henry says they are heading east and Garupe nods, walking quietly beside him. The forest is easier and the groaning and creaking of bamboo is gradually replaced by the soft _shuff-shuff_ of leaves in the breeze and the snap and pop of dry twigs under their feet. By late afternoon, Henry is appraising every new area they reach as a possible campsite and when they encounter a narrow stream of clear water gurgling over a bed of mossy rock and gravel, he squeezes Garupe’s hand. “Here looks good.”  
Garupe drops the pack and stretches. They stand smiling at one another for a few seconds, then Henry sees Garupe’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes and mouth open wide and his hand come up to cover his mouth. He is staring over Henry’s shoulder. Henry frowns and turns very slowly to look behind him.

“When I say,” he murmurs as quietly as he can, “I want you to run as fast as you can and not look back. I will find you.”

Henry eases down, stifling the groan rising in his throat at the pain from his ribs, and slowly opens the pack. He removes his pistol, still loaded with three bullets. He raises it and aims at the huge grey-backed bear that has just noticed them.

“RUN!”

He fires once and the bear roars and lunges forward.


	9. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters.

Henry aimed to frighten, not to maim or kill, but this creature is not afraid of the sound. The crack of pistol fire startles it for only a second, then it shakes its head, roars, and launches into a snarling run towards the source. Henry aims and fires again, this time inflicting hurt that he prays will send the monster yelping into the wilderness. But the bear stops only to shake its head, rear up and roar again as if the bullet inflicted no more pain than a horsefly bite. Henry is breathing hard and staring. He can’t outrun a bear. He can’t fight a bear. Bears are faster, stronger and far better climbers than any human. He has one strategy and one bullet left. All he can do is fall to the ground, feign death, and save his last bullet in case he has to ease his own way out of this life and into whatever is next for a half-believer like him.

As he lies as still as he can with his pistol aimed for mercy, the bear growling and snuffling and pawing at his boots, he closes his eyes tightly, grits his teeth and gives thanks that Garupe got away.

Garupe runs until he falls, then he lies sobbing and weeping that Brother Andrew faces a danger that he cannot help him overcome. He feels his failure cut him deep, and he babbles entreaties to God to spare Andrew Henry from harm. Not for himself, no, he begs that Henry be safe and promises anything God would ask of him, his own life, in return.

It is in a state of fear-drained exhaustion that Garupe eventually drifts from frantic, mumbled prayer into sleep, or some hallucinatory facsimile of slumber. He wakes with a cry and realises with joy that he is not alone.  
“Brother Andrew! I thought you were—” He looks up.  
“Greetings, brother! We thought you dead at first. Praise God that we were wrong.”  
There are two black-clad priests sitting one either side of him, their wide-brimmed hats shading their faces.  
“Brothers,” he says, trying to disguise the disappointment in his voice. “I was with a companion. A man called Henry. We were attacked by a bear. Have you found him? Is he... does he live?”  
“Ah,” says one brother. “A bear.”  
“Alas,” says the other. “He will likely not have survived, else he would have found you before we did.”  
Both men shake their heads slowly. One removes his hat to fan his face, revealing paper-thin skin, pale blue eyes and a deep scar that makes him look as if his skull was cleft almost in two. Garupe can’t keep eye contact with him.  
“Brother, join us. We are travelling to the coast where we will board a ship back to Macau. Come home, and rejoin your Holy Order.”  
Garupe closes his eyes and shakes his head as if to clear water from his ears. He can’t tell which Holy Brother spoke, or if it was both in unison like his Brothers chanting their _Ave Maria_ slightly out of time.  
“I must go back for my brother. He may be hurt. He might have given his life so that I escaped. When I begged God in despair to send me a sign, Andrew Henry appeared. I owe him my care. I owe him a Christian burial if... if... I owe him my life.”

Garupe struggles to his feet and turns, hoping he faces back in the direction he came from. He looks at the disturbed leaf litter and smiles. When did he learn to do that? Who taught him with terse phrases on their long treks to look out for this or for that? He takes three steps and looks over his shoulder. “Please, come. Pray with me and help me either nurse him or bury him, Brothers.”  
But he is alone, and guilt that he succumbed to fear and abandoned his brother makes him fall to his knees, cry out and weep.

Henry almost discharges his weapon in fright when a loud _BANG!_ explodes off to his side. The pawing and snuffling and growling stops and through the soil he feels the vibration of the large beast lumbering away at speed. Through the air he hears it yelp and roar. Then hands take his arms and help him to his knees. He’s not ready to get to his feet yet.  
“Looks like you been thought Hell, buddy,” one voice says.  
“Sure does,” says the other. “Ain’t so many live to tell a tale like yours. Camp’s nearby, come join us.”  
“Thank God you came,” Henry says. “I thought I was—” He breaks his pistol and taps out the last bullet, slipping it into his pocket. He thinks he might give it to Garupe. He is suddenly alert and looking around. “You seen another man? Tall, underfed, dark hair, looks a bit wild?”  
“Nope,” the first man says. “Ain’t seen no one like that. Probably a goner out here on his own.”  
“No,” Henry says. “You’d think it but he can handle himself.” He gets to his feet. “Gotta find my Brother.”  
“Come back to camp with us.” The second man says, looking a little too eager for Henry’s liking. Henry tries to study his face but it swims in and out of focus. He has the barest impression of skin aged beyond the natural lifespan, watery eyes and a deep crevice in his skull giving the face an unusual asymmetry. “We’re trappers. Headed for the Carolinas once we clear this forest. We heard you got a good head on you. Join the business. Always space for another soul.”  
Henry frowns from one to the other. _”Always space for another soul,”_ one of them repeats but he can’t tell which. Maybe it’s both.  
“Got to find Francisco,” he says. “Won’t leave my man behind. You know how it is.” The words pull at him with guilt and regret as soon as they leave his lips. “I did it before and I won’t do it again. He can’t have gotten far. Help me find him.”  
He looks around for the two trappers and frowns at the empty air between the trees. There is no sign of disturbed earth or broken grass and ferns where the bear had been and the only disturbance in the leaf litter that coats the forest floor leads back the way they came.

Henry hoists the pack onto his back and sets off at a trot that makes him gasp and his head swims with pain at every breath. When he sees a dark haired head nodding as a gaunt man walks slowly, head down, he falls to his knees and shouts. Garupe looks up, raises his hands to his face and runs to kneel in front of him. Garupe’s spouting garbled words that run into one another and his arms are around Henry’s shoulders. Henry cries in pain and Garupe releases him, eases the pack from his back and holds his face in both hands instead. Henry looks up at a grimy, tear-streaked face, and his own relief makes him weep in sympathy.  
“You got away,” he says. “Thank God you’re safe.”  
“I am safe with you,” Garupe replies, kissing Henry on the face. “I thought you must be... I thought God had called you into His presence.” Garupe throws his arms around Henry again, careful of his injuries. “I prayed but I feared I would find you only to bury you.”  
Henry raises his face and his lips find Garupe’s.  
“I vowed never to leave a man behind again,” Henry says between kisses. “Two trappers scared off the bear then vanished when I said I wouldn’t leave you behind. We must be near a town.”  
“Two Brothers found me and said I should sail home to Macau with them,” Garupe says. “They left when I told them I must find you and asked for their help.”

Henry is quiet, head spinning and ribs sending sparks of hot pain through his chest. Garupe helps him to lie down comfortably and lies beside him, their heads touching as they share the pack as a pillow. Garupe holds Henry carefully, an arm behind his neck and a hand on his shoulder, and kisses his cheek. Henry turns his head for a kiss on the lips.  
“My left pocket,” Henry says quietly. “I kept something.”  
Henry frowns but pats Henry’s clothing. He reaches into Henry’s pocket with two fingers and pulls out the brass cartridge.  
“I had one left. If the bear mauled me, I was going to end—”  
“Don’t think of it now,” Garupe says abruptly. “You are here.”  
Henry kisses Garupe. “I want to be far from here. Let’s get moving.”

Garupe helps Henry up then swings the pack onto his back and takes Henry’s hand. Before they reach the river they can hear it: not the water but the shouts and calls of those who work on it. They emerge into a clearing where one figure is shouting instructions to another. Henry thinks it’s a boy shouting to a man and means to ask for help, until they get closer and the shouting figure turns and waves.  
“No gun this time?” She smiles.  
It’s the girl from their encounter before the waterfall, hair bunched into three loops at the back of her head. Henry wonders if it was really so few days ago that they met. It feels like he has lived an entire life since then. The warrior woman is hauling on a rope that opens a sluice gate. There’s a water wheel on the side of a large building and as the water rushes through the sluice, the wheel creaks and groans and slowly rotates. From inside the building, someone cheers.  
The warrior woman walks over to join her companion.  
“We should take them directly to the Mayor,” she says. The girl smiles at her and nods.

It’s a short walk. The Town Hall is a modest, wood-framed, clapboard building with wide open doors and people walking in and out. Inside sits a tiny creature with huge spectacles that magnify their dark brown eyes. Henry can’t decide whether to address the Mayor as sir or ma’am. The girl leads them right up to the desk.  
“Who have we here?” the Mayor says, peering up at Garupe and Henry. “You have travelled far,” the Mayor says after a minute of uncomfortable scrutiny. “Some are just passing through but you look like you’re here to stay. This town needs someone to look after the schoolhouse. There are not many children, but they need a teacher.” Henry takes a step back and the Mayor laughs. “Not you. Him.” A wizened finger points at Garupe. “Knows a certain style of philosophy. Speaks five languages. You’ve taught children to read and write before, Francisco?” Garupe nods. “And you found it a satisfying occupation?”  
Henry watches Garupe’s face light up then dim. “I must return to my Brothers in Macau,” he says. “They will expect me to return with news of my mission.”  
“No,” the Mayor says. “Your Brothers have already mourned and celebrated your martyrdom. There is no way back to your world from this one, even if you wanted to go.”  
“But it is my duty! My vows—”  
“Francisco!” Garupe starts at the Mayor’s sharp voice. “Stop lying to yourself. What do you want to do: return to your old life or remain here and live at peace with the man you call Brother Andrew?” The Mayor’s face softens. “Answer only inside your own head and heart for now. That is where you truly hear your God speak to you.”  
Garupe sighs deeply. He looks at his hands and his feet and at the Mayor. “I do not want to return to my Brothers,” he says quietly, “if Brother Andrew will consent to remain with me, I will gladly stay.”

The Mayor turns a steady gaze on Henry. “You seem like the practical sort. We have no need of soldiers or trappers, but you could turn your practical skills to building and engineering like your friends have done. This town is going to get a little bigger and we need to improve the water supply. Or would you care to be a farmer?”  
Henry frowns. “What is this place?”  
“Answer my question first: farmer or engineer?”  
“Engineer. What is this place?”  
The Mayor’s face wrinkles in a smile and teeth show between thin lips. “This place is whatever you choose to make it. I call it Home. You could make a home here too.” The Mayor looks from one man to the other. “With Francisco.”


	10. My people will live in peaceful dwelling places

Garupe is sitting at the table that the warrior woman built for him. Her young companion has gone. “Unfinished business in her own world, but she’ll be back when she’s ready and I will be here,” she had said with a shrug before promising more carpentry in exchange for a reliable plumbing system and help with her calligraphy out at the water mill. The kitchen is warm from the embers in the iron range and smells of spices and herbs, and Garupe is deep in contemplation.

Henry comes home after a while and kisses Garupe, still staring into space. “You seem distracted,” Henry says, appreciating for the third time today that Garupe’s hair is glossy and falls in soft waves that tumble past his shoulders, his face has filled out and his wide shoulders, once hunched over his gaunt frame, seem in perfect proportion to his muscular arms and torso. He smiles. Adequate food and physical work have done them both good. “Still in the mood to celebrate?”  
“Of course!” Garupe stands and smiles, holds his hands out and welcomes Henry to sit in his lap. “Has it been a whole year?”  
Henry smiles into the next kiss and runs his fingers through Garupe’s thick, wavy hair. It has been a whole year—he has notched off each morning starting from the first time they woke up on the bare floor this small house together, and now there is a pattern of fine nicks in the frame of the main door. Garupe runs his finger over them every so often, checks that Henry has not missed a day.  
“A whole year. Have you thought about it any more?” Henry looks away. “About this?”  
“I have thought about my vows and my beliefs every waking hour since my faith was so abruptly challenged,” Garupe says. “I have prayed often and meditated on it daily, and the only teachings against this love are based around the prejudices of the age.” Garupe makes eye contact with Henry and smiles. “God has never said to me that loving you is wrong.”

Henry slips his arms around Garupe’s shoulders and marvels for the fourth time today that Garupe has such solidity to his form. “Wasn’t there some Old Testament verse about a man lying with a man as with a woman being an abomination? I remember my old Padre being fond of that one.”  
“Leviticus,” Garupe says with a grin, “was obsessed with mildew and declared that women are unclean when they give birth. I choose to disregard that particular point of view.” Garupe kisses Henry again. “Besides, I would not be lying with you as with a woman. I would lie with you as with a man.”  
“Ha! Yes,” says Henry. “What about that epistle that troubles you?”  
“There are many things in those epistles that I now question as a result of my studies. Not their original words, but their context and interpretation. Paul preached against men taking _boys_ as lovers, and I could quote his words to you in the Greek of its time, the Greek of my time, and two versions of Latin to show the incremental changes in meaning. Translators projected their own values onto the verses I memorised as a novice. I wonder how much of what I learned as _truth_ was changed by accident of uncertain wording or by deliberate design.” Garupe sighs and shakes his head. “I regret that I have only now had the opportunity to study original scriptures in depth. And I can’t tell my Brothers about it.”

Henry leans closer to Garupe and rubs their cheeks together. He knows Garupe likes the feel of his full, soft beard on his clean-shaven face. Garupe takes his hands and feels over the rough callouses.  
“You work yourself hard, brother,” Garupe says with a fond smile.  
“I would like to relax with you this evening, love,” Henry says. “I thought we might pack some food, hike out into the forest, have a campfire and talk about whatever comes to mind.”  
“Or we could stay home,” Garupe suggests, lifting Henry’s work-stained hands up for inspection and turning them over. “Where there are no bears. I lit the oven so we have hot water and hot food, and when we can’t stay awake any longer we have a comfortable bed with no rocks in it.”  
Henry smiles. “There isn’t a day that passes without me thanking God that we met.”  
Garupe blinks a few times, as he does every time Henry expresses sentiment. He kisses Henry again, they get up and Garupe leads Henry from the kitchen. “I have thought about it, since you asked,” Garupe says, “and I have made a decision.”

Resisting the urge to demand to know Garupe’s decision, Henry follows Garupe through the main room to the bedroom opposite and through the bedroom to the bathroom where a large, varnished wooden tub sits under the spout of a pump. Garupe pushes the stopper into the outlet in the floor of the tub and starts working the handle up and down. Henry admires the way Garupe’s muscles move under his skin. Garupe notices and smiles a little. “Is it not odd that lust is a sin, yet desire is one of many factors that adds to my love for you?”  
“Not sure I will ever get used to you saying things like that, Francisco. Do you remember that morning, day or so after we met, you had a dream and—”  
Garupe stops working the pump and the splashing of steaming water pauses. “I was so sure you would revile me, leave me to find my own way through the wilderness.”  
Henry walks over and puts his arms around Garupe’s waist from behind. “Never. Not even then. I wanted... I wanted to be able to tell you that I didn’t mind. I liked that you thought of me that way even in a meaningless dream.”  
“Well,” Garupe starts filling the tub again, pumping with slow, deliberate pushes of his arm. “I was not ready to hear that a year ago.”  
Henry watches water cascade into the tub. After another minute he takes his clothes off, one garment at a time, folding carefully while Garupe watches, and waits for Garupe to finish filling the large tub and strip too.

They hold hands as they step into warm water and sit down facing one another, legs overlapping. Henry sighs in pleasure as the heat starts to soothe his tired muscles. Garupe smiles, enjoying the comfort and the sight of Henry relaxing after a day of physical work. After a minute, he sits up and reaches for the soap. “Turn around and sit where I can reach you,” Garupe says.  
Henry stands, turns and sits between Garupe’s knees. Garupe pours water over Henry’s head, making him splutter and laugh, then lathers soap through his shoulder length copper tresses. Henry sits still, eyes closed, breathing in the astringent scent of the rosemary oil that Garupe used to perfume the soap. Warm slippery hands slide over his shoulders and down his arms, then back up only to glide down his shoulder blades. Henry groans in appreciation as Garupe finds a tense spot in his muscles and kneads at it with his fingers. He complains a little when Garupe’s hands stop and then water cascades over him again, rinsing the soap from his hair.

“Lie back,” Garupe says, shifting himself against the slope of the tub and patting his chest. Bathing together is one of their rituals, one that began the day Henry declared the varnish dry and thick enough to be watertight and Garupe pointed out that the water boiler was only big enough to fill such a large tub once. In here, Henry usually does exactly as Garupe directs for fear of offending him or making him feel uncomfortable. But this is new, Henry thinks. He turns to look over his shoulder at Garupe. Garupe smiles and pats his chest again. Henry smiles back and settles against Garupe. The soap makes their skin slippery and the sensation makes Garupe laugh. Garupe lathers this hands again and starts to wash Henry’s chest. When his fingers rub over Henry’s nipples for the third time. Henry laughs and holds Garupe’s hands still.  
“You’re turning me on, love,” he says.  
“I know,” Garupe replies, reaching his hands lower over Henry’s belly. “I want to.”  
“Do you want me to touch myself?”  
“If you would prefer that,” Garupe says then goes quiet.  
Henry sits up and turns, kneeling in front of Garupe. “What are you not telling me?” he says gently.  
Garupe looks up and smiles. “I’m tired of watching. I want to touch you,” he says.  
Henry looks down. Now that only his lower legs are submerged, his cock is filling out. He looks at Garupe again and smiles. “You can, if that’s what you want. I would like you to touch me.”  
Garupe splashes and slops water as he grips the edge of the tub, pulls himself up and folds his legs under himself. He mirrors Henry’s position. Henry strokes Garupe’s face and kisses him. “May I touch you too?” he asks, quietly.  
Garupe smiles and nods. Henry kisses him again, takes his hand and stands. They towel off quickly then Henry leads Garupe to bed.

They lie facing each other, kissing and exploring skin with flat palms and soft finger pads, until Garupe rolls over and pulls Henry on top of him. Garupe plants both hands on Henry’s backside and Henry wriggles a little for comfort. Garupe closes his eyes and sighs. Henry rocks his hips again and Garupe’s smile widens.  
“Wait here,” Henry says. He gets up and fetches a bottle of oil from the pantry. Garupe watches while Henry pours a little into his hand and spreads it high up between his thighs. He pours a little more onto his hand. “I’m going to put this on you,” he says. “Makes it feel better.”  
Garupe nods and parts his thighs. When Henry massages his cock with the oil-slick hand, he yelps in surprise. Henry laughs. “I’m sorry. I should have told you what I wanted to do.” He lies down on his back. “Get on top of me.”  
Garupe does as Henry suggests. Henry guides Garupe into position and traps Garupe’s cock between his thighs. Garupe sucks his lip and supports his weight on his arms either side of Henry’s shoulders.  
“You can lie down,” Henry says, smiling. “I won’t break.” Garupe settles slowly and kisses Henry’s jaw, nuzzling at the soft beard. Henry strokes Garupe’s hair. “Do whatever feels good,” Henry suggests, and Garupe thrusts his hips a few times slowly then he gasps and picks up the pace. Henry turns his face to kiss Garupe’s mouth, holding his head still with a hand in his hair. Henry’s oiled hand reaches down Garupe’s back, but he can’t quite reach far enough to rub his fingers over Garupe’s hole. Garupe comes quickly, crying out in pleasure, then collapses onto Henry.  
Henry holds him close and murmurs soft words. “Was that good?” he asks. Garupe dissolves into giggles.

Once he recovers, Garupe gets up and reaches for the oil.  
“Lie still,” he says, rolling onto his side, facing Henry, with his slicked hand clasped around Henry’s cock. “Let me do this.”  
“I would let you do anything,” Henry says.  
“Anything?” Garupe replies.  
“Anything,” Henry confirms, sighing and humming in pleasure as Garupe slowly strokes his cock.  
“There is one thing, my love,” Garupe says. “I overheard two Brothers discussing it once.”  
“Oh?” Henry says. “What was it?”  
“One said he wanted to pleasure the other with his mouth. Do men like us do that?”  
Henry tries not to laugh. “I can think of one way to find out,” he says, grinning. “But only if you want to.”  
“You will tell me if it is not pleasant?” Garupe asks. Henry opens his eyes to see Garupe’s slight frown.  
“I don’t think that will be a problem for me,” Henry says. “If you don’t like it, just stop. And if I cry out and tap your shoulder, you’ll move back right away, won’t you?”  
Garupe nods as he moves down the bed.

Henry moans softly as Garupe’s lips close around his cock. He guides one of Garupe’s hands to the base of his cock and tells him to hold it, and not to suck too hard. Henry feels his climax build and recede when Garupe loses his rhythm, then again when he stops for a rest, and a third time when Garupe moves his hand for extra support, accidentally pulls his head back too far, and Henry’s cock slips out of his mouth completely and slaps on his belly. Henry laughs and Garupe can’t help joining in.  
“I am no good at this, Andrew,” Garupe says.  
“Did you hear me complain?” Henry replies, sitting up and pulling Garupe in for a kiss. “It feels wonderful, Francisco. I’ll do it to you later and you’ll see.”  
“You’re not getting tired of it?”  
“No.” Henry kisses Garupe for another long minute. “Stop if you've had enough.”  
Garupe considers it for a moment then ducks his head again. This time, Henry feels his pleasure build quickly and soon he is tapping Garupe’s arm and garbling out a warning. Garupe moves just in time.

They lie in each others’ arms for a while then bathe quickly in the cooled bathwater and dress. The beans Garupe had left in the oven are soft and flavourful and they eat from the same bowl side by side in silence.  
“This morning you said the Mayor asked if we wanted to live here forever or move on,” Garupe says.  
Henry nods. “I did,” he says. “What would you like to do, Francisco?”  
Garupe puts his arms around Henry and rests his head on his shoulder. “I want to stay. Why would I refuse heaven?”


End file.
